


and you'll smile on your knees

by fletcherstringham



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Brotherhood/03 Mashup, Established Relationship, For Want of a Nail, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-15
Updated: 2016-08-15
Packaged: 2018-08-08 23:12:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7777405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fletcherstringham/pseuds/fletcherstringham
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Greed,” Ed murmurs. He recognizes the name. He hasn’t come close to forgetting the homunculus he fought in Dublith: tall and lanky, the Ouroboros symbol on his left hand, a smirk framing those pointed teeth. Not much has changed, really, except that he’s taken refuge in Russell Tringham’s body.</p><p>“That’s me,” Greed says, turning to give Ed a very sharp grin. “<em>You</em> definitely don’t look very happy to see me.”</p><p>(A ‘for want of a nail’ fic where Greedling never comes to be, and the Avaricious’ host is instead someone Edward Elric holds very dear.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	and you'll smile on your knees

**Author's Note:**

> So, hi! After weeks of putting it off, I finally finished FMA:B a little bit ago and while FMA 2003 remains my personal favorite, I’m glad I gave Brotherhood a chance; I enjoyed many aspects a lot more than I thought I would. I liked some things so much that I’m in the very, _very_ bare bones of planning a 2003/BH fusion, featuring all the things I adored in BH in something resembling 2003’s awesome plot with a few new things thrown in just ‘cause. This fic encompasses one such new thing: if, instead of Ling Yao, Father gave Russell Tringham the Philosopher’s Stone and made him Greed 2.0. I started thinking of how Russell-as-Greed would differ from Greedling and, _voila_!
> 
> I’m definitely not done exploring Greed!Russell, so let’s call this an intro. A few other notes: there’s established Russell/Ed in here (because I can), it assumes that Russell instead of Ling was swallowed along with Ed at the safehouse (which is something I’ll probably get my shit together and write eventually), and I personally interpret Fletcher Tringham as a trans girl (which, though she in all her loveliness only gets a mention, is why she’s referred to as such).
> 
> My endless thanks to [VerboseWordsmith](http://archiveofourown.org/users/VerboseWordsmith) for taking a look at this. Feedback is appreciated!

Save the intact limbs, the return from the Gate is much as it was three years ago: Ed recognizes the swoop in the pit of his belly, the black specks dotting his vision, and the tingling along his nerves, like there’s electricity dancing in his blood. The world spins when he tries to sit up, so he elects instead to lie panting against Envy’s side for a few more moments, eyes darting about hazily in a half-hearted attempt to survey his surroundings. Then, there’s a cough to his right, and he remembers Russell.

“Hey,” says Ed, and he stretches out the automail arm, fumbling blindly for his boyfriend with his gaze on the concrete floor. He feels Russell’s shoulder under his fingers, and squeezes. “You all right?”

Russell responds with a noise that could mean just about anything. With great effort, Ed hoists himself onto his knees, shuts his eyes against the resulting vertigo, and inches closer to crouch near Russell’s left leg. For a moment, he just watches. Russell’s eyes are glassy, his breathing harsh yet shallow. Ed bites his lip.

“Russell?” he tries again. Russell blinks, shakes his head. Ed frowns. The broken arm won’t support his weight, so he leans forward awkwardly on his knees to cradle Russell’s cheek in his metal hand. There’s a dual purpose in the gesture: besides to comfort, the cold automail pressed suddenly into his skin makes Russell startle, and his eyes come into focus.

“Sorry,” he murmurs. He blinks again, then brings a hand up to his temple, pressing his fingertips into his right eye. “Sorry,” he says again, in a louder, clearer voice. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just needed a second.”

“You can have more than a second if you need it,” Ed tells him.

Russell smiles. It’s thin and wan, but it’s still a smile, and after a moment he covers the hand on his face with his own, fingers tightening around the metal. “No, Ed, I’m fine,” he says. “Help me up, though?”

Still feeling a bit rocky himself, Ed’s careful as he stands and, once he’s relatively steady, offers his hand. Russell uses it to haul himself upright; he winces when he tries to put weight on the sprained ankle, and Ed slides his automail under Russell’s arms to support him. After a moment of awkward maneuvering, Russell puts his arm about Ed’s shoulders, and they take a few steps.

Then, a loud, relieved cry: “ _Brother!_ ”

Ed hears Alphonse before he sees him, metal footsteps clanking harshly as he runs over, and then Al throws his arms around them both, tucking his helmet into Ed’s shoulder despite Ed’s squawk of protest.

“Oh, Ed, you’re safe!” Al yells, as Ed whines and tries to duck under his embrace; Al’s arm is pressing into his broken one. “I’m so happy you’re okay, I was so worried!”

“Yeah, I’m fine! But you’re choking me, Al! Damn!” Ed shouts.

Al takes a hasty step backward, and Ed notices his left hand is missing, sliced cleanly at the wrist. “Sorry,” he says, with a chuckle Ed can tell is forced. “It’s just … I …” Here, Al pauses. “I really thought you were dead, Brother,” he finishes, with a tremor in his voice. Ed, with a pang of guilt, extends his good arm (careful not to unsettle Russell), and Al clasps the hand in his large palm like a lifeline.

“Me? Die before you get your body back?” Ed gives a warm smile. “Who do you take me for?”

Al laughs again, sincerely this time. Even Russell smiles in a way that lets Ed know he’s trying and failing to pretend not to be touched. “I’m glad you’re okay, too,” Al says to him, after a moment, which makes Russell laugh. Despite the grimness of the situation, Ed feels a powerful surge of affection for them both.

The levity of the moment disappears when, behind Envy’s massive form, Ed hears footsteps. He twists toward the sound—Russell hisses in pain as the movement jostles his ankle—and Al straightens and takes a defensive stance. Then, in perfect unison, both Elrics freeze with shock as the approaching man’s face comes into the light.

“There’s no way,” breathes Al.

“What?” says Russell.

“ _Hohenheim?_ ” gasps Ed.

“Now, this is unusual,” says his father’s double, completely ignoring all three boys. “People emerging from his stomach?” Several feet behind him trails Gluttony, looking defeated and miserable. “I haven’t seen that in quite some time. Actually, I’m not sure if I’ve _ever_ seen that before. How bizarre.”

It’s been years, but that face, that voice; they’re exactly as Ed remembers, and for a second, he wants to throw Russell off his shoulders and run up to punch the bastard. He settles for shouting instead: “What the hell is this? What are _you_ doing here?!”

“Are you two the Elric brothers?” asks the doppelganger, as if Ed hadn’t spoken. He scratches the beard on his chin in concentration. Then, suddenly, he’s in Ed’s space, leaning in close to study him; Ed recoils. “Steel appendages, and an armored body … I would certainly think so.”

“Then …” Al begins in a hesitant voice, and Ed finishes his sentence, “You’re _not_ him?”

“Have you mistaken me for someone else?” the stranger asks. His eyes flicker over to Russell, then return to Ed with apparent disinterest; Ed feels Russell bristle. “Hm,” murmurs the stranger, “hold on … Hohenheim … you said Hohenheim?” he asks Ed, who blinks at the sudden directness of his voice. “You mean, Van Hohenheim? Is he an acquaintance of yours?”

Ed doesn’t respond. After a moment, Al says, in that same hesitant voice, “Well, uh. He’s our father.”

There’s a pregnant pause in which Hohenheim’s double lifts his eyebrows, Ed shifts his weight, and Russell just looks bewildered. Then, all at once, the man’s jubilant; he beams and ruffles Ed’s hair like a long-lost uncle at a family reunion.

“Your father!” he says in delight. “I had no idea he’d had _children_! And two of them! My word!” Then, as Ed, Al, and Russell all stare openly, the stranger breaks into hearty laughter.

“I missed the joke,” Russell says in an undertone.

“Hohenheim _is_ the joke,” Ed replies, and Al makes a noise that might be a laugh, too.

“But now I must confess myself confused,” says the stranger, who, with no transition whatsoever, stops laughing and resumes his quiet contemplation of the trio. There’s nothing outright condescending in his demeanor, but Ed finds himself unnerved and annoyed nonetheless: the man’s gaze makes him think of a scientist studying some vaguely interesting specimen. “If you are the sons of Hohenheim, why is your family name ‘Elric’?”

“‘Elric’ is our _mother’s_ last name!” Ed snaps. “What’s your deal, anyway, pops? If you know Hohenheim, how come you don’t know about us? And why the hell do you look _exactly like him_?”

“Where is Hohenheim, anyway, child?” asks the doppelganger, stepping on Ed’s sentence as if, yet again, Ed weren’t talking at all. “It sure has been a long time.” And, again, he chuckles, another inside joke that Ed, Al, and Russell aren’t privy to.

Ed remains stonily silent, and it’s Al who answers, “We—we don’t know where he is. He left us and our mother when we were really young.”

“Oh, what a pity,” the stranger says. Somehow, the mild disappointment infuriates Ed more than any sympathy would have, as is the norm. “I would have liked to see him.”

“How do _you_ know him, then?” bursts out Ed. “If you’re gonna stand there and asks questions, you better start—”

“I do wonder where he is, though,” mutters the man, ignoring Ed thoroughly. “I know that he can’t be _dead_ …”

“Stop interrupting us!” Ed gripes.

“Brother,” Al says over the man’s contemplative hum. “This guy, he’s the one the—”

But, as he speaks, his hand closes urgently around Ed’s left wrist, and the sharp pain of the broken bone jolts all the way into Ed’s teeth; he jerks, nearly dislodging Russell, and cries out, and Al immediately releases him with a startled gasp.

“I’m sorry, Brother, ah! I didn’t know you were hurt!” says Al, while Ed hisses, “It’s fine!” from between clenched teeth, pressing the injured arm into his side. This does more harm than good; a second, equally painful twinge shoots from the left side of his ribs throughout his chest, and this time, Ed _does_ drop Russell to clutch at his ribs with his automail arm. Russell staggers, tries to balance himself on his uninjured leg, and ends up falling to the floor.

“Hm?” Having been lost in thought, Not-Hohenheim turns around and notices Ed’s wince. The concern that creases his brow does little to mollify Ed: it’s not _genuine_ concern, Ed sees, but akin to a parent noticing his child’s broken toy. “It would appear you’re injured.”

Before Ed can bring his hands together and summon the arm-blade, Not-Hohenheim grasps the wrist of his injured arm and holds it tight. Ed tries to pull away, gasping in pain, but not before the stranger lays his other hand on Ed’s forearm; there’s a familiar crackle and a flash of bright light, and then Ed yanks his arm free. Yet, the pain he expects doesn’t come. He pauses, tentatively extends his arm. Flexes it.

“It’s,” he whispers, unable to help himself, “it’s not broken anymore!”

In lieu of a response, Not-Hohenheim comes closer to grasp Ed by the shoulders, to run his hands over Ed’s torso until he stops with one palm resting lightly against the ribs on Ed’s left side. “Two broken ribs, as well,” murmurs Not-Hohenheim, more to himself than anything, and with another flash of light, that pain’s gone, too.

“Envy, you really do need to be more careful with the sacrifices,” says Not-Hohenheim, looking over Ed’s shoulder at the beast. Then, his eyes skate over to Al. “See, look. This one is missing a hand as well.”

“ _That_ wasn’t me,” Envy says smoothly. Even in their current monstrous form, with souls of the damned wailing pitifully under their neck, the eye-roll is evident in their voice.

Resting his fingertips lightly against the hole where Al’s left hand should be, Not-Hohenheim transmutes another with a third flash of red sparks. Al makes a noise of wonder. He forms a fist, then stretches his fingers.

“You are two of my most valuable resources,” says Not-Hohenheim. Were there any malice in his tone, Ed could find it in him to attack the bastard, but the cold calm of his voice stops Ed in his tracks; a chill skims its fingers down his spine. “It is of the utmost importance that you remain alive and healthy.”

“Brother,” whispers Al, “just now, did he say ‘sacrifices’?”

“Think so,” Ed says quietly. “Al, something’s not right here. Those transmutations, he performed them without even moving!”

“He didn’t even thin out my armor, Brother!” Al murmurs in surprise. “There’s no equivalent exchange!”

There’s a sudden tug on Ed’s automail arm. He startles, looking down, but it’s only Russell, using Ed to pull himself upright. Ed kneels to help him out. Once Russell’s standing under his own power, only his left hand gripping Ed’s shoulder for support, he points a threatening finger at Not-Hohenheim and says in a low, wavering voice, “I want to know what’s going on here, _now._ Who are you? What the hell is this place? What do you mean by ‘resources’, and why am _I_ not one?!”

Not-Hohenheim raises his eyebrows. He seems to be really seeing and considering Russell for the first time. Once again, it’s his demeanor—no hatred, no vindictiveness, just cold, calm scrutiny—that unsettles Ed, who’d much preferred when the stranger had dismissed Russell outright. Ed takes a half-step in front of his boyfriend, and gives the bearded bastard a glower that dares him to get closer.

“Hm,” says Not-Hohenheim thoughtfully, peering at Russell’s face. Wildly, Ed thinks of a dog that can smell fear, and wonders if the doppelganger can see the panic under Russell’s anger and stubbornness like Ed can. But, instead, Not-Hohenheim says in that same contemplative voice, “Blue eyes … you’re no son of Hohenheim, then. Which makes you uninteresting as well as useless.”

The hand gesturing toward the stranger drops. Russell looks like he’s been slapped. “‘Useless’?” he repeats, clearly trying for indignation, but instead he sounds hurt and humiliated.

“Who the fuck do you think you are, calling him that?!” shouts Ed. “What does that even mean, anyway, old man? What’s your deal?!”

Suddenly, Al makes a noise that, if he had lungs, Ed’s sure would be a gasp. “Brother!” he whispers. “The homunculi, they keep calling this man their father! I think he’s the one who created them!”

Ed looks quickly from Al to the stranger, eyes wide. “You’re sure about that?”

At Al’s nod of assent, Ed looks back at the doppelganger eying them coolly, neither confirming nor denying Al’s claim. Then, the bastard turns on his heel and begins to walk off. Ed, still seething, makes to cover Russell’s hand on his shoulder with his own, but Russell shakes him off, and hobbles forward after the stranger.

“Russell!” says Ed warningly, reaching out to grip his wrist.

Still, Russell yells after the man, “So I’m not good enough to be sacrificed, is that it?!”

Nearly at the exit, Not-Hohenheim stops. He glances over his shoulder at Russell, shaking with fury and the pain of putting weight on his sprained ankle; at Ed, holding Russell by the wrist and practically _begging_ for the bastard to make a move toward him; at Al, several feet behind, hands up and ready to fight. After a moment, the man sighs.

“When you see an insect the ground, and step on it,” he says, “do you stop to consider the value of its life? Do you wonder to yourself if its worth was equal to, less, or greater than the worth of the insect that you allowed to live? Was it even a conscious choice, which one lives and dies? Of course not. You merely killed the one in your way, and had it been the other, it would have died instead. The individual creatures’ lives are so tiny and insignificant as to be indistinguishable. _That_ is an accurate summation of my feelings toward you humans.”

Russell looks how Ed feels—like he’s about to be sick. Behind him, Ed hears the faint rattling that tells him Al is trembling.

“To better answer your question, child,” says the creator of the homunculi, “you are no more insignificant or useless than the rest of your kind. It just so happens that, unlike you, your friends are unique and, for a brief time, have a purpose for me. Let’s call them fireflies in my proverbial lantern, and you are an ant.”

Silence. Russell shifts more weight onto his good ankle and nearly loses his balance; Ed catches him under the arms, moving behind him to steady him again. To Ed’s left, Al has dropped his battle stance and is staring in the man’s direction in evident horror. If he had a face, Ed thinks, he’d look like Russell: face white, lips parted in shock, eyes huge with the existentialism of the bastard’s speech. And Ed, so brash, so loud, who’s met plenty of monsters and seen plenty of horrible things, finds himself speechless. His brain tries to supply a retort, offers several of them, even— _every human on this planet has value,_ maybe, or _we’re significant to each other, and that’s enough_ , or _don’t call my boyfriend an ant_ , or even a simple _shut your fucking mouth—_ but nothing seems adequate to describe the sudden, aching hollowness in his chest. Barry the Chopper’s bloodlust, Shou Tucker’s morbid curiosity, even the Gate’s demand for payment: none of it seems to measure up to the level of evil required to dismiss all of humanity like this man has. And, if there’s evil like _this_ in the world, so powerful, so prominent— _what’s the point?_ whispers a tiny voice in Ed’s head.

 _No. I can’t afford to think like that_ , Ed tells himself. Above all else, he has a promise to keep to his brother: that he’ll restore Al to his body, no matter what. Three years later, that wish ( _not just a wish_ , he thinks, _a goal_ ) remains the same. But it’s not just Al anymore, either. Winry. Aunt Pinako. Russell. Fletcher. Colonel Mustang and Lieutenant Hawkeye. He thinks of what the latter told him after his very first assignment, in Youswell: _“It seems you’re garnering quite a reputation out here. They say there’s a champion of the people among the military dogs.”_

And the ones who’ve died—Nina, and Lieutenant Colonel Hughes, and his mother—no. Slowly, the feeling returns to Ed’s fingertips, the heat returns to his blood. Hopelessness is not an option.

“So,” Ed says. He swallows, hoping to relieve the dryness in his mouth. “So. Is that all you’ve got to say, you bearded bastard?”

The father of the homunculi stares back at him for several moments, looking, of all things, _bored_ , which makes Ed clench his teeth.

“Yes, child,” he answers, “it is. Gluttony, you can go ahead and eat the taller one if you’d like.”

Gluttony, who’s lingered uncertainly by Envy until now, makes a sound of delight that overlaps with Russell’s noise of horror and Al’s cry of, “No! Don’t!”

In one movement, Ed shoves Russell behind him and rushes forward so that he stands between him and Gluttony, hands thrown out in a gesture that’s part supplicating, part threatening. “No one’s eating anyone!” Ed yells.

Now Al moves forward, so that he’s a half-step in front of Ed. In his armor, he cuts a much more imposing figure, Ed reluctantly admits; Gluttony seems to waver a little. “You called me and my brother sacrifices, right? You said you needed us!” says Al, evidently thinking fast. “So you should want to keep us happy! That guy’s our friend and we don’t want you to kill him, and it’s like you said, there’s no point it!”

“But there’s no point in keeping him _alive_ , either,” says the bastard, turning around again. “As you’ve reminded me, I need the two of _you_ , not him. No amount of friendship changes that. He remains unimportant to me.”

“Well, he’s important to _me_!” Ed says loudly. “And I’m not gonna let you or any of your cronies lay a hand on him, you got that?!”

Envy, previously content to recline and enjoy the show, makes a threatening noise, showing their teeth. Their creator quells them with a hand. “Touching,” he says, pivoting slightly to look at Ed. “But the dalliances of human beings don’t interest me, and quite frankly, you’ve wasted much of my time already. Gluttony will take care of your friend here and the two of you will follow Envy, who will take you to Wrath.”

“Like hell we will!” shouts Ed, and he brings his hands together, then slaps his palms onto the ground.

Al follows immediately suit: while Ed splits the concrete, creating jagged hunks of rock that shoot up and forward toward the creator of the homunculi, Al transmutes the tubes littered about into ropes that wind around the man like snakes—but, in the next second, there’s another burst of red sparks, and Al’s ropes fall away and Ed’s rock turns to dust.

Before Ed can prepare a counterstrike, a shadow covers him, and he looks up to see Envy, growling viciously, lifting a giant arm to bring it down and crush him. His legs have just gotten the order to move when, suddenly, something hard collides with his back—he and Russell skid across the concrete and Envy strikes the bare ground.

“Thanks,” Ed says breathlessly. Russell can’t do much more than smile in response before they have to leap apart: Envy’s enormous hand slams into the ground exactly where they lay mere seconds before. As Ed hoists himself to his feet again, feeling dizzy, he suddenly remembers with a thrill of horror that Russell can’t transmute without a circle.

Russell seems to realize this at about the same time. “A little _help_ , maybe?!” he yells, as Envy pivots their head from left to right, clearly trying to pick a target. When their eyes settle on Ed, that horrible mouth stretching into a grotesque smile, Ed’s quick to clap and close his fist around the nearest piece of rubble. When he feels smooth powder under his fingers, he knows without looking that he’s succeeded, and he throws the chalk at Russell before ducking away to avoid Envy’s hand again.

In his peripheral vision, Ed sees Al clap his hands and transmute into a long, thin rod; it weaves through the chaos like a ribbon in water, on a collision course for Hohenheim’s doppelganger, but he raises a palm, and with a short flash of light, it explodes, scattering debris. In Ed’s distraction, he’s a second too late to miss Envy’s tail; he twists and it connects with his abdomen, winding him, and Envy laughs and tosses him in the air like he weighs nothing. It’s Al who saves Ed from crashing to the ground—he transmutes a slab of concrete into a hasty slide to catch him and slow his descent, so that he lands with bruises instead of broken bones.

“Be _careful_!” Al tells him.

The static of another transmutation drowns out Ed’s retort. This time, however, the light is green instead of red: Ed, transmuting his automail into its sword, turns to see Gluttony, hot at Russell’s heels, twist in panic as Russell traps him with spires sprouting out of the stone floor like vines. Gluttony breaks free easily with just a swing of his massive fist, but not before Russell draws another hasty circle and, from the rubble, transmutes a sword.

Thinking Russell can handle Gluttony, Ed focuses his attention on Envy, who, with a powerful roar, tries to crush Ed under their hand again. This time, Ed’s prepared: once Envy’s palm makes contact with the concrete, sending a jolt through the ground, Ed gets a running start, jumps toward their leg, and pushes off to propel himself upward. Then, he descends. He drops feet-first toward Envy’s snout, glaring fiercely at that awful red eye where the blade on his arm will find a home, but from the ground, Envy’s creator transmutes a wall for Ed to collide with instead, and Envy’s tail whips around to knock Ed to the concrete. He lands on his automail shoulder—it hurts enough to make him yell, but it’s better than if he’d landed on the flesh arm; it would have broken like a toothpick.

Panting on all fours, his vision in a spin, Ed gives himself exactly ten seconds to catch his breath. Al attempts to land a blow against their father’s double in the meantime, but, once more—with a mere _thought_ , it seems—he deflects the attack, turning Al’s concrete snake to dust. From the resulting smoke comes Russell, running up with his sword held like a bat. Before the blade even begins its arc toward the man, however, a pillar shoots out from the ground: it connects with Russell’s chest and throws him across the room toward Al, where he lies groaning and clutching his sides, sword sliding from his slack fingers. Gluttony, delighted to see his dinner, lumbers over.

“ _Russell!_ ” Ed screams. But, when he stands, the resulting vertigo makes him drop his knees again. At the sound of his voice, though, Russell stirs. Holding his ribs with one arm, he fumbles for his sword with the other, and as Gluttony approaches, Russell rises to his knees and flings the weapon at him. It doesn’t stick—Ed expected as much—but the sharp edge of the blade slices deep into and across Gluttony’s forehead, and he drops to the ground with a howl. Hearing the cry, his father turns around, only mildly perturbed, and seems to sigh.

“This is a waste of time,” he murmurs, shaking his head. Ed hauls himself to his feet again—this time, he wobbles for a moment but remains standing—but before he can run at him, the bastard lifts his robe to reveal a sandaled foot. Hohenheim’s double takes a single step forward.

The moment his sandal meets the ground, there’s an enormous burst of red light. The very air seems to crackle with electricity; Ed feels it running along his skin, setting his hair on end, thrumming in his joints and the roots of his teeth. Next comes a rush of wind so strong it nearly knocks Ed back to the ground; behind him, he hears Russell fall on all fours, and Al drops to his knees. Hohenheim’s double continues to emanate that strange red light—it grows brighter still, until the whole cavern glows a bloody crimson, but then, as quickly as it began, it stops.

Ed, squinting as his eyes adjust to the dimness again, looks around. Nothing seems to have changed. Envy, seeming bored with the chase now, has resumed their recline against the wall, those ugly eyes fixed on Ed and that disgusting mouth curled into a smirk. A pouting Gluttony’s wound has healed itself; blood still covers half his face. Ed turns to see Al shakily regain his feet and Russell brace himself on his hands and knees, heaving.

“Are you guys all right?” Ed calls out in a hoarse voice.

“I am,” Al answers, coming to Ed’s side. “Russell?”

Unable to speak yet, it seems, Russell nods and gives Al a thumbs-up. Then he doubles back over and starts to cough up blood.

“Brother,” says Al urgently, grabbing Ed’s shoulder when he tries to go to his boyfriend. “Brother, _what was that?_ ”

Ed’s gaze whips from Russell to the creator of the homunculi, who, throughout the entire battle, has remained exactly where he stands now. His expression doesn’t reveal the slightest hint of distress; instead, he returns Ed’s stare with calm expectation, raising his eyebrows the tiniest bit, and Ed grits his teeth.

“I don’t know,” he tells Al, clapping his hands, “and I don’t really _care_ , either!”

He slams his palms to the ground.

And nothing happens.

Ed freezes, still in a crouch with his hands pressed to the cold stone beneath him. For one stupid moment, he waits, like the transmutation will work if he just gives it a minute; then, with a panicked noise he can’t contain, he leans back on his haunches and looks at Al. If he had a proper face, Ed’s sure Al would share his own look of horror. Together, they try again: bringing their hands together and then putting them to the concrete in the wild hope that this time, it’ll give. It doesn’t.

And, against his will, Ed begins to tremble. He feels goosebumps spread over his skin; cold sweat trickles down his neck; his breath rattles in his lungs. It’s not as if he’s a stranger to perilous situations. He’s been backed into so many corners, been attacked and violated in a myriad ways, seen more of his own blood and accumulated more scars in fifteen years than many will in a lifetime. And yet, for all that he’s been victimized and traumatized, for as many fights as he’s lost, fighting has _always_ been an _option_ , and alchemy has been his go-to weapon. Of course, alchemy has been useless before; it’s done more harm than good, several times; but more often it’s been the perfect augmenter to his fists and wits, it’s singlehandedly saved his life—and, above all, alchemy has always been _there_. An integral part of his identity. A huge chunk of his reputation. Half of his name, even: “The Fullmetal Alchemist.” To have it so suddenly stripped away—the bastard might as well have taken another of his limbs.

He feels more than afraid, now. He feels _helpless._

“What did you _do_?” Al demands. “What did you do to us?!”

In lieu of an answer, the bearded bastard shifts his gaze to Envy. They turn, as if on cue, and bring two massive hands down to flatten Ed and Al against the concrete.

“Ed!” Russell shouts. He forces himself to his feet, a hand at his ribs, and starts for them, but Gluttony’s quicker: Russell takes only a few steps before Gluttony lunges at him. Ed, struggling under Envy’s hand, almost misses what happens next—he almost doesn’t see Russell gnash his teeth against the pain of his injuries, steel himself, and swing his right leg in a powerful arc toward Gluttony’s head. The kick connects with an unprepared Gluttony’s temple; he falls to the ground in a heap, and in the second-long reprieve that follows, Ed feels a nearly overwhelming amount of affection and appreciation for Russell Tringham.

The victory doesn’t last. Envy shifts, and their tail collides with Russell’s back, knocking him into Gluttony. Russell’s left ankle, having borne all his weight to aim that kick, refuses to support him now; he’s only able to shuffle away on his hands and knees before Gluttony grabs his injured foot and yanks him back. Russell screams.

“Let him _go_!” Ed bellows, writhing under Envy’s hold. They don’t budge: laughing, their hand presses Ed further into the stone and muffles his voice. To his right, Ed hears Al try in vain to transmute again—he claps those leather gloves and touches the concrete several times before he lets out a sound of frustration.

“What’s going _on_ here?” he cries out. “Why can’t we use our alchemy?!”

“‘ _Why can’t we use our alchemy?_ ’” mimics Envy, with a cackle that echoes throughout the cavern. “Oh, wow. The minute I get to thinking maybe you humans aren’t so _pathetic_ , you just _have_ to go and prove me wrong, don’t you? One _tiny_ little speck of power, and it all goes to your heads—you think you’re kings of the fucking castle! You think you can change the world! Raise the dead!” Ed snarls, and Envy pushes his face so that the rough stone scrapes his cheek. “You don’t _think_ , not for a _second_ , that you might not have the slightest idea how that power even _works_. You pretend like you control it, when really, _it_ controls _you—_ and when it’s gone, you’re ready to run home with your tail between your legs and blubber to Mommy that _life isn’t fair_!”

Al makes a furious noise, and Ed struggles harder than ever as Envy enjoys another hearty laugh. Gluttony loops his arms under Russell’s shoulders and twines his thick fingers behind his neck, leaving Russell unable to do any more than thrash and kick. The struggling makes Gluttony drool.

“Can I eat him now, Father?” he asks eagerly. “Can I, can I, please?”

“Get your fucking hands off him!” Ed screams.

But Gluttony has eyes and ears only for his creator, who watches with piqued interest as Russell fights to break free from the hold. The creator turns his whole body to face Russell, eyebrows lifting as he thoughtfully strokes his beard, and, as if by some silent command, Russell’s flailing stops. His chest rises and falls rapidly; his face is twisted with pain and fear. Hohenheim’s double takes a step toward him.

“You stay away from—!” Ed begins, but the man interrupts in a calm, thoughtful voice that, despite being much quieter, drowns Ed’s out: “I might have a use for you after all.”

“For _me_?” Russell whispers.

Hohenheim’s doppelganger touches his forehead with a single finger. The flesh there splits like a wound, and in the opening, instead of blood or bone or sinew, sits an eye, the veins of its sclera bright and bulging, its pupil a violent shade of violet. Just the sight of it makes bile bubble into Ed’s mouth. Yet, Russell, whom Ed expects would look away, seems transfixed: even from here, Ed sees that awful third eye reflect darkly in Russell’s own, turning the blue to black. In the next instant, ruby-red liquid begins to leak from the orifice, chasing the creator’s nose like a thick, bloody tear. Al recognizes it first.

“Is that,” he whispers, “a Philosopher’s Stone?”

If Russell were still before, he’s a statue now, eyes wide and mouth slack. The Philosopher’s Stone pools in the creator’s waiting palm, forming a tiny blob that looks both solid and liquid. Overhead, Envy crows.

“Are you planning what I _think_ you’re planning?” they ask. “Because I wouldn’t if I were you. Why waste a perfectly good Stone on some brat who’s spineless even for a _human_? I say feed him to Gluttony, bit by bit. I want to see the look on Fullmetal’s _face_ —”

“You talk far too much, Envy,” says their creator dryly, before Ed can do more than howl with rage. “If I wanted your input, I would have asked.”

Envy actually manages to look almost sheepish. “Oh. Sorry.”

“What’s he planning?” Ed demands, craning his neck to glare at Envy. “What wouldn’t you do if you were him? What’s he going to do?”

In a smooth, smug voice, Envy says the words that set Ed’s heart to hammering and turn his skin to ice: “He’s going to make a new homunculus.”

“A _what_?” gasps Ed, who heard perfectly well. A homunculus. A new homunculus. It’s hard to breathe around the tightness in his chest, and he’s squirming under Envy’s hand automatically, even as he stares ahead and struggles to form words.

Beside him, Al says, in a disbelieving voice, “But—but homunculi are _artificial humans—_ how can you make a homunculus out of an _actual human_ like Russell?”

“The Philosopher’s Stone is added to the bloodstream,” Envy explains, with the exaggeratedly patient air of a teacher telling a petulant toddler that two and two is four. “If it’s able to merge, then a human-based homunculus is created. Of course, I can’t say much for the _success rate_ …” That horrible grin stretches even wider. “Remind me, what is it, Gluttony? Eleven to one, I think? See, it’s more common for the Stone to overpower the subject and kill them … you humans aren’t very tough, you know, and this one looks _especially_ gutless. If you say ‘please’, Fullmetal,” Envy sneers, “I might let you go give him one last kiss.”

Ed writhes under Envy’s hold. Angry and horrified, he almost doesn’t register something pressing into the small of his back. “You’re not—you’re not gonna— _I’m not gonna let you do that to him!_ ” Ed yells. “You bastards! You’ll have to go through _me_ if you wanna lay a _fucking finger_ on him!”

“I think we’ve already _gone_ through you, worm,” Envy tells him, and emphasizes the _you_ with another shove. This time, Ed definitely feels it: small, cold, metal. Suddenly, he’s sitting in Lieutenant Hawkeye’s tiny kitchen again, listening to her describe the horrors of Ishval as she cleans her pistol. “Don’t look like that, Gluttony,” Envy says, as their brother casts a disappointed look in their direction; apparently he realizes he might not get a meal out of Russell after all. “When the Stone kills him, Father will probably let you have what’s left.” This elicits a noise of delight.

“Children,” says their creator softly. The Philosopher’s Stone in his hand, he kneels in front of Russell—who, of all of them, has stayed silent this whole time, but for the rattling of his breaths. For several long moments, Russell does nothing but stare at the Stone; its red refracts in Russell’s eyes and turns them the same violet as the creator’s. Russell swallows hard.

“That’s it, then?” he asks in a hoarse whisper. “That’s the Philosopher’s Stone?”

Hohenheim’s double doesn’t respond. Russell seems to take his silence as a yes. His arm twitches, like he wants to reach out and touch it, but Gluttony’s hold is too tight, so he settles for staring at it with an expression Ed doesn’t like to see. It’s beyond shock, beyond pain or fear; it’s _resignation_. It’s defeat. And, just barely visible beneath it, there’s a shred of wonder and a great deal of irony that makes Russell’s lip curl even as his eyes start to fill.

“All that time,” he murmurs. “All those years. I guess I was expecting something flashier, but it’s just like you said, isn’t it, Ed? Looks like a piece of costume jewelry. To think my father died for _this_.” Russell gives an empty laugh. “To think I will, too. If you only knew, old man … you’d laugh your ass off.”

“I doubt that,” the man replies. “I stopped seeing you humans as amusing long ago, child. You started off as miserable, pathetic creatures and now you all seek to emulate each other. You’re directionless and pitiful.”

“Sounds about right,” Russell says. He sounds exhausted. Absently, he flicks his gaze up at Gluttony, who grins and licks his lips; then, those blue eyes return to the Philosopher’s Stone in Gluttony’s father’s outstretched hand. “So those are my options, huh?” Russell asks, raising his voice a little, and Ed hears something, if possible, even _worse_ in his tone: hopelessness.

“You don’t _have_ any ‘options’, worm,” Envy retorts, but their father holds up a hand and they fall silent.

“If it comforts you to think of them as such,” says Hohenheim’s doppelganger, “then sure, child. Those are your _options_. Mind you, as you doubtless heard Envy say, the chances that the Philosopher’s Stone will take to you are very slim. You humans are incredibly fragile. And yet, there’s something in you … the need to prove yourself, a desperate thirst for validation … maybe you’re different.”

“Maybe I am,” Russell whispers.

“He’s screwing with your head, Russell! Don’t listen to him!” Ed shouts. He jabs at Envy. “He wants to make you into a freak like _this_!”

“And just _who_ are you calling a _freak_ , pipsqueak?” snarls Envy. The slight lift of their hands as they tilt their head to glower at him is exactly what Ed was banking on: he twists, slides an arm behind his back, and retrieves Lieutenant Hawkeye’s handgun from his waistband. He points it with shaking hands at his father’s double, teeth gnashing and breaths coming in harsh pants.

“All right, so here are _your_ options, you bearded bastard,” he spits out. “You let my boyfriend go, you let me and my brother go, or else _I_ blow your fucking _head_ off, how’s _that_?!”

“Even if you could kill, child,” says the bastard calmly, “I can’t die. You can barely hope to _scratch_ me with that toy of yours. Of course, if you’re confident your aim is true, you’re welcome to try.”

“Just don’t shoot lover-boy by mistake!” laughs Envy.

And, _damn the fucker_ , they have a point; Ed’s hands are trembling so badly he’s just as likely to hit Russell as the bastard he’s aiming at. He changes tack, pivoting under Envy’s palm to point the pistol at them instead. Undaunted, their chin lifts; beneath it, where their throat should be, are the _faces_. Writhing, moaning, twisting to throw mangled, emaciated arms out in self-defense.

“ _Can_ you, pipsqueak?” Envy taunts. “Can you _really_ hit such a _sad face_?”

The pistol falls from Ed’s slack fingers and hits the concrete with a soft _clack_. Ed’s hands curl into fists.

“Fuck you,” he whispers. He tastes copper in his mouth; red tints his vision. “ _Fuck you!_ You bastards! I hope you rot in _hell_!”

“How typical,” Hohenheim’s double responds. He rises. “Let me tell you something, young Elric. There is no heaven, and there is no hell. _I_ am God, and you humans are the real devils.”

“How many?” Russell gasps, clearly fighting to get the words out. “How many souls? In—in that Stone?”

The bastard looks down at him. Under the beard, his lip seems to curl the tiniest bit, and Ed swears he could tear him to pieces. “Two hundred sixty-eight thousand, one hundred and sixty-four,” he answers coolly. Russell’s breath leaves him in a rush. Unbidden, it seems, the tears leak from his eyes and trickle down his cheeks. “You’ll never be alone again.”

“Russell,” Al says, with a note of desperation, “back in Central, there’s a girl who loves you more than _anything in the world._ You can’t do this to her! And you can’t do this to my brother, either! You’re never as alone as you feel! Please, Russell, _listen_!”

But he _isn’t_ listening. It takes Ed one look at Russell’s face, oddly blank beneath the tears now coursing steadily down it, to know that Russell’s in some place beyond logic or reason. Fear scrabbles at Ed’s throat and twists his insides into knots.

“If two hundred thousand souls isn’t enough to fill the void you feel,” says Hohenheim’s doppelganger, leaning down again to cup Russell’s chin in his free hand, “your avarice is beyond what even I can give you.”

He touches Russell’s cheekbone and follows a tear to his jaw. Electricity crackles beneath his fingertip; there’s a small flash of red light, and Russell recoils as a gash opens along his cheek. Blood oozes from the cut. The Philosopher’s Stone shimmers a similar red in its maker’s palm.

The bastard presses his hand to Russell’s face, right into the open wound, and swipes down, as slow and deliberate as a lover’s caress. The tightness around Ed’s throat suddenly releases, and he finds a loud voice to scream, “No!”

The liquid Stone seeps into the gash as easily as anything.

“Let him go,” the man says, and Gluttony releases Russell at once.

Wildly, Ed thinks to scream at him to go, run, save himself—but, of course, Russell can only drop to his hands and knees as his system starts to absorb the Philosopher’s Stone. Red light sparks from the Stone’s entry point throughout Russell’s entire body: under his skin, down his nerves, thrumming in every muscle fiber and blood vessel and synapse until even his fingers twitch with the intensity of it. A burst of electricity, and Russell gasps and keels over—another, and he chokes around a scream and vomits dark, sticky blood— _another_ , and blood gushes from his mouth and eyes and ears—he writhes like a man on fire—his limbs jerk and twitch and spasm into positions that would repulse the most daring of contortionists—

And the _rattling_ his breaths make, around the blood and bile, between the groans and wails and screams that probably just _barely_ give voice to the agony he’s in—Ed knows that sound. He might be eleven years old again, bleeding in his basement, while the _thing_ that was meant to be his mother struggles to pull air into exposed lungs and reaches out a rotting hand—he might be twelve, weeping as he finds Nina Tucker’s remains splattered over a wall, choking on his own grief and guilt—

 _Not again_ , Ed finds himself thinking, as Russell howls and throws off electricity like a lightning rod, as Al calls his name over and over and fights to escape Envy’s powerful hold, armor clanking as he struggles. _Not again. Not him too. Not him too._

Has the Gate—Truth—God— _whoever_ decided that _this_ is Ed’s due, to let people in and watch them suffer and bleed and die before his helpless eyes, each instance worse than the last? Fuck equivalent exchange. What power, what skills, what knowledge could _possibly_ make up for this? He would trade all the secrets of the world for Mom’s life, Alphonse’s body, Nina’s happiness, Russell’s safety—even if Ed doesn’t deserve it, they do, all of them; he’d give everything, brain and body and soul and heart, to see it happen—

Russell’s spine arches like a hunter’s bow, arms spread like he’s going to embrace the world—then, all at once, someone cuts his strings, and he collapses like a marionette. His body twitches once, then goes still.

For just a second, Ed waits. He waits for Russell to moan and struggle to sit up. He waits for Envy to remove their hand so Ed can go to him, wipe the blood from his face, help him stand. There must be a moment where some higher power looks down and decides, _That’s enough for one day._ Surely, this has to be it.

“Russell?” calls Al, sounding worried.

No response. Not even the slightest twitch of his fingers. There’s no movement in his chest, either. Some invisible fist squeezes Ed’s lungs to bursting.

_Not him too. That’s enough for one day. Let him live. Let him live._

But, as the seconds pass, the reality of it settles over Ed like a weighted blanket. He realizes he may have just watched Russell Tringham die.

“Russell,” Ed says. There’s gravel in his voice. “Russell. Get up. Stop fucking around.”

“Russell!” yells Al.

Envy starts snickering, then _laughing_ , loud and uproarious. The sound seems to reach Ed’s ears through a tunnel.

“Well, that’s unfortunate,” says Hohenheim’s doppelganger. “Predictable, but unfortunate.”

A sandaled foot reaches out and nudges Russell’s cheek, and _this_ is what undoes Ed. Venom fills his mouth; fire chases his blood. “Don’t touch him!” he yells out. “You stay the hell away from him! Russell, _get up,_ get up! This isn’t a fucking joke! Get up! You’re not dead!”

“Russell!” says Al pleadingly.

Envy’s massive form quakes with laughter. Gluttony glances from them to Russell, then to his father. Before he can ask the question, however, there’s a sound from below. Ed freezes, not daring to hope for it, and then Russell moans again, shoulders twitching, body curling as he rolls onto his knees. Al makes a noise of gratitude and Ed’s breath rushes out of him all at once, so that he feels light-headed with relief.

“Tringham, you _ass_ ,” he whispers. “You scared me to death! Are you okay?”

Russell doesn’t answer. He doesn’t turn or even acknowledge that Ed spoke to him. Instead, he rolls his head until his neck pops, stretches his arms, and leans back on his haunches to get to his feet. The bearded man offers a polite hand; Russell casually waves it away as he rises, lifting his arms above his head.

“How do you feel?” the man asks mildly.

“ _Tight_ ,” Russell mutters, as he twists his upper body sharply to the right; Ed hears his back pop. Then, swinging his arms at his sides, Russell turns and gives Envy an amused look. “Is it usually like this for you, too?”

“Well, I change bodies a lot more than you do,” Envy says wryly, “so, no. Not really.”

Russell laughs. Ed bristles at the sound: it’s Russell’s voice, but the intonation is wrong, the expression is off, and he still hasn’t acknowledged Ed or Al, choosing instead to converse casually with his captors. Ed’s relief quickly gives way to foreboding.

“Russell?” he asks. Against his will, desperation leaks into his voice. “Russell, are you okay? Could you answer me, maybe?”

The plea is enough to get Envy giggling again, their hand bumping against Ed’s back as they tremble with mirth. Russell sets his clothes to rights: fixing the buttons on his shirt, straightening his suspenders, folding down his collar. Ed’s heart hammers in his throat.

“Russell, say something to me,” he insists. “This isn’t funny. _Say something._ ”

Above him, Envy crows. “You can’t _honestly_ be every bit as stupid as you _look_ , Fullmetal,” they say with relish. “You don’t really think that’s still your little boyfriend, do you?”

The fingers of Russell’s left hand card through his hair, and to his right, Ed hears Al make a sound of alarm.

“Brother,” he says urgently. The armor rattles quietly as he trembles, and Ed can almost imagine his face, white and wide-eyed. “Brother, look—look at his hand.”

Unable to make heads or tails of this, heart pounding like it’s vying for freedom, Ed shifts his gaze from Al to Russell. Then, he sees it. On the back of Russell’s left hand, a stark red against the white skin: a tattoo of a dragon devouring its own tail. The Ouroboros mark.

“Russell,” Ed whispers. Then, in a louder voice: “ _Russell!_ ”

“I guess he _does_ really think that, then,” says Russell Tringham’s voice. He settles his left hand on his hip and looks back at Envy. “He’s not very bright, is he?”

“Not really, no,” they agree, smirking. “You’re as perceptive as ever, Greed.”

“Greed?” Al repeats in disbelief.

“Greed,” Ed murmurs. He recognizes the name. He hasn’t come close to forgetting the homunculus he fought in Dublith: tall and lanky, the Ouroboros symbol on his left hand, a smirk framing those pointed teeth. Not much has changed, really, except that he’s taken refuge in Ed’s boyfriend’s body. Anger and indignation and guilt and fear all battle one another in Ed’s mind, until he’s only able to stare at Greed-Russell with numb incredulity.

“That’s me,” Greed says, turning to give Ed a very sharp grin. Ed’s conflicting emotions must show on his face, because after a moment, Greed chuckles again. “You definitely don’t look very happy to see me.”

“Why would he?” says Al angrily. “You tried to kill him in Dublith! You kidnapped me! You just stole our friend’s body!”

Greed’s eyebrows knit, like Russell’s do when he’s confused. “What are you _talking_ about, kid?” he says. “I think I’d remember all that. And Dublith? What?”

Before Al can retort, Hohenheim’s doppelganger explains in an even voice, “They’re referring to my Avarice before you. A different Greed, my son. Those aren’t your memories.” Comprehension lights up Greed’s face, and he nods. “I must say,” his father continues, “I almost expected you to reject this host. Are you sure you’re comfortable in that body?”

“Honestly?” Greed cracks his knuckles. “I feel pretty great.”

“But, Russell,” Ed says. His voice, high and strained, sounds like a stranger’s. “What about Russell?”

“What about him?” asks Greed, quirking an eyebrow.

His tone is so light, his smile so easy that Ed’s anger begins to win out: he glowers at Greed, gritting his teeth, but Greed stays cool as ever. He saunters over to where Envy pins Ed to the ground and squats down on his haunches to meet his eyes. Ed, expecting Russell’s steel blue, startles at the bright violet irises.

“That’s _his_ body,” Ed says indignantly.

“It’s mine now,” Greed replies.

“Like hell it is!” Ed bursts out. “You can’t just take it from him!”

Greed gives a small laugh. This time, the sound is a punch to the gut—that’s _Russell’s_ laugh, the quiet, teasing one he uses when he knows something Ed doesn’t, the one that needles under Ed’s skin and makes him itch to have him nearer. From this bastard’s mouth, it slices through Ed like a hot knife, and he reacts to the pain like an injured dog: snarling, raising his hackles, daring Greed to get closer so Ed can tear his skin between his teeth.

“I hate to break it to you, pal,” says Greed, grinning wickedly, “but I didn’t take _anything_ Russell wasn’t _happy_ to give me. I didn’t ‘steal’ a thing; I didn’t _have_ to. The kid was practically on his knees _begging_ me to take his body and do what I would with it. I just did what he wanted.”

Heat rushes into Ed’s face: Greed might have slapped him. “You’re _lying_ ,” he whispers. That smile only widens. “You’re lying!” Ed screams at him. “You’re a fucking liar! He wouldn’t do that! He’d never!”

Greed just chuckles again, straightening to look down at Ed with his hands on his hips. “That’s another thing you should know, kid,” he says. “I don’t lie. Maybe with me in charge your little boyfriend will learn a thing or two.”

“Shut your mouth!” Ed yells. “Russell wouldn’t give his body to a fucking snake like you! I know he’s in there, and I know he’s fighting you, right now! Russell!” His automail hand pounds the concrete. “Answer me, Russell! _Russell!_ ”

Greed flashes those sharp teeth as he continues to grin. Before he can do anything else, though, an enormous creaking noise sounds from the opposite end of the cavern: the door. For one stupid, hopeful moment, Ed thinks they’re saved—Mustang and his team will appear in the entryway and drive off Envy and the other homunculi—but, when he manages to turn toward the sound from under Envy’s hand, Ed only sees a huge, horned, hairy beast. His brain has barely processed the sight when, suddenly, the chimera wails and collapses into a puddle of blood. Behind it stands a tall Ishvalan man, his jaw tight, an X-shaped mark across his forehead and the bridge of his nose. Scar.

As Ed’s eyes adjust to the light and smoke, he notices a girl at Scar’s side. She looks about Fletcher Tringham’s size and age, but the similarities stop there: this girl is sturdily built, with long, braided black hair and dark eyes set in a round, determined-looking face. Like the rest of her, her clothes are vaguely familiar; Ed thinks of Ling Yao and Lan Fan as he studies the sash, the wide sleeves, the cut of the collar. Her small hands are curled into fists. As Ed watches, though, something in her expression suddenly breaks: she sucks in a panicked breath, her eyes widening, and turns to hide her face in the fold of Scar’s robe. Scar glances down at her, brow creasing.

“What is it?” he asks, kneeling next to her. “What’s the matter?”

“That _man_ ,” she whispers. Her eyes are trained on the tall, bearded man who could be Van Hohenheim, and she’s quaking from head to foot. “He’s not _human_. I don’t know what he is, but he gives me this—this _feeling_.”

What sort of feeling that is, she doesn’t say, but Ed’s not sure he wants to know from the way her lip quivers. Her knuckles are stark white against Scar’s dark robe; tears glisten in her eyes. Scar rests a large palm on top of her head and stands, glowering in Hohenheim’s double’s direction.

“No, Mei,” he murmurs in agreement, “he isn’t.” He removes his hand. “What are you, then?” he calls out, while Hohenheim’s doppelganger peers at him through cool gold eyes. “Another homunculus?” Scar’s gaze shifts from him to Gluttony, then to Envy, and then to Ed and Al pinned beneath them. The disgust on his face becomes mild bewilderment. “And you’ve got Fullmetal.”

“Father,” says Gluttony. He points at Scar. “That’s the Ishvalan man I never got to eat.”

The bearded man follows Gluttony’s fat finger to Scar, who returns the stare with hostility. For the first time, Hohenheim’s double looks almost irritated; his eyes narrow, and his nose wrinkles with displeasure. “Ah, yes. Our dear friend who’s been using his destructive alchemy to interfere with our plans … I do hate it when humans get ideas of their own. It always ends up messy.” He tuts.

“Well, he doesn’t have _any_ alchemy right now, Gluttony,” Envy says casually. “If you still want him…”

They don’t even have to finish their sentence. Gluttony shrieks with delight, runs over to Scar, and pounces. Unperturbed, Scar lifts a hand: it connects with Gluttony’s chest in a burst of electricity, and with a second, more pained screech, he drops to the ground, blood spurting from his now gaping chest.

“What the hell?!” screams Envy, while even their father looks on in shock. The girl, Mei, grits her teeth, reaches inside her robe, and procures two handfuls of knives. As her foot quickly sketches a transmutation circle, she throws the knives in her right hand at a slab of rock at Envy’s foot; the knives in her left drop to the ground, each piercing a point of the five-pointed star she drew, and she kneels to press her palms to it.

 _The girl from the train station_ , Ed realizes, as blue light sparks from Mei’s hands. Before Envy can do more than yell, Mei transmutes a thick pillar out of the concrete: it shoots up, collides with their belly, and launches them, howling, into the air. Ed immediately leaps to his feet and hurries out of the way as Envy crashes to the ground. Al is at his side in minutes.

“If they can use _their_ alchemy,” he shouts over the noise, “does that mean _we_ can use _ours_?”

“Only one way to find out!” Ed yells back. The brothers bring their hands together and, in perfect unison, slam them onto the concrete. And, still: nothing. “ _Fuck!_ ”

Envy staggers to their feet. Before they can give chase, Ed takes off in the opposite direction with Al at his heels.

“That doesn’t make sense!” says Al. “Why can they transmute when we can’t?!”

“Hell if I know!” Ed retorts. Up ahead, the rubble forms a sizable wall, and Ed and Al quickly take cover behind it. Ed doubles over, trying to catch his breath, while Al peers out to survey the situation.

“I think Envy’s as confused as we are,” he says, “which is good, I guess, and they’re all still fighting. What do you think, Brother? Should we just try and make a run for it?”

Over the ringing in his ears, Ed hears Hohenheim’s doppelganger speak: “Messy, just as I said. If you could tidy this up for me, Greed.”

“Sure thing,” Greed answers in Russell’s voice.

Ed clenches his teeth. “We’re not going anywhere, Al.”

“But, Brother—” Al must see the determination in Ed’s face, because he abruptly changes tack. “Okay, then. We’ll fight. You still have your arm-sword, so you should try and take care of Envy while I go after—”

“Forget it, Al,” Ed snaps. His pulse pounds in his ears. “Greed’s _mine_.”

“I don’t think that’s a great—Brother!”

Ed barrels over the stone wall and makes a run for Greed.

In the brief time it took Ed and Al took to recuperate, Scar and Mei, fighting together to take down the pursuing Envy, have reduced much of the stone floor to rubble. Ed’s muscles burn with exertion as he climbs over scattered tubes and hunks of rock; there’s acid in his lungs, so that each breath feels like he’s swallowing knives. But, rage, he’s found, is an incredible motivator, and adrenaline is one hell of a drug—he doesn’t slow down in the slightest as he powers through the debris in search of Greed. The bastard remains elusive. Ed skids to a halt in a small circle of rocks and turns on the spot, holding the blade on his automail arm in a threatening manner, and, suddenly, there he is: lounging atop a slab of concrete taller than Ed, legs crossed, flashing his sharp teeth in a grin.

“Hey, there,” says Greed, so nonchalant, so _at ease_ that Ed could scream. Instead, he charges. In one graceful movement, Greed leaps off the rock and balances himself on his hands a few feet behind Ed; he’s upright again in the second it takes Ed to twist and face him, and he ducks when Ed tries another lunge. Still, he doesn’t strike back. Ed’s anger makes him increasingly erratic: his jabs become wilder and wilder until he’s nearly toppling with each swing of his arm, and Greed just weaves and bobs, his hands behind his back, his lips curved in a smile. Growling, Ed tries to drive the arm-blade up through Greed’s throat, but succeeds only in finally losing his balance. Greed laughs as he stumbles.

“Oh, come _on_ ,” he goads. “Are you even _trying_ to hit me? No, wait. Don’t tell me. It’s ‘cause I look like your _boyfriend_ , isn’t it?”

Ed’s throat is clenched too tight to speak. There’s less of a stitch and more of a dagger in his side: the effort of standing alone nearly brings tears to his eyes, but he still resumes a defensive stance and gives Greed a look that could kill. Greed seems unperturbed.

“What’s the matter, kid?” he asks mockingly, folding his hands against his cheek. “Don’t want to hit Russell’s pretty face?”

With a howl of rage, Ed rushes at Greed and swings again. This time, however, instead of slicing through the empty air, the automail meets something hard: Greed’s forearm, suddenly as unyielding as the concrete. Ed can’t help but stagger back in surprise as Greed spreads his arms to show off the Ultimate Shield in full—it encases his skin from his fingertips to his neck, its metallic black a stark contrast to Russell’s white shirt. Greed smiles, if possible, even bigger.

“Ready for some real fun?” he says. In an instant, he seizes Ed’s right fist. Ed struggles to wrest his hand from Greed’s grip as the bastard bends the metal wrist back: Ed hears the springs and screws squeak in protest before he’s able to free himself, and then, with a swipe of his claws, Greed severs the blade on Ed’s automail with a screech of steel on steel.

Unarmed, Ed finds himself on the defensive. He throws his arms in front of his face and lets his automail take the brunt of Greed’s punches while he shuffles about the space, looking for a gap in the rocks so he can slip away and regroup. Suddenly, a piece of debris catches his right foot: Ed, unable to catch himself in time, slips and earns a searing pain in his knee as something sharp slices it open. He takes only a second to assess the injury, which, despite the blood, doesn’t seem too deep—but, when he regains his feet, something else gets his attention. He squats down for a closer look and immediately gains his second wind: what cut him wasn’t debris at all, but Russell’s sword.

Greed appears above him, lunging with his claws. Ed seizes the sword by the handle and dives out of the way. When Greed tries another swing, Ed deflects the blow with the blade, and then takes advantage of Greed’s momentary confusion to aim a kick at his gut. The Shield only protects Greed from the pain: the power in Ed’s kick still forces him back. For a moment, he looks furious, glaring up at Ed through a curtain of blond hair. Then his smile returns.

“Not bad, kid!” he says bracingly, setting his fists on his hips. His demeanor remains casual, but Ed senses a change in the way he holds himself. Before, Greed was teasing him; now, he recognizes Ed as a legitimate opponent, and he stands guarded and ready for the next stretch of their fight. “I was starting to get bored for a second there! Though, I guess it makes sense you’d have some spunk.” He taps his chest meaningfully. “There’s gotta be _some_ reason this one was so taken with you. I mean, it definitely wasn’t your looks.”

It’s obvious, shameless baiting, but it still takes enormous effort for Ed to grit his teeth and ignore it. Instead, he plants himself firmly in front of Greed with Russell’s sword in a defensive position. There’s a pause in which Greed’s grin becomes a small, cool smirk, his eyes meeting Ed’s, and then he lunges again. Ed’s ready. He blocks the punch with the flat of his sword, bats away the next swipe of Greed’s claws with a swing of the blade, and then holds the weapon close to his body so that Greed can’t steal it. While Greed tries to appear unbothered, Ed sees his mouth twist in irritation.

“So, what? You agree Russell was the good-looking one?” he asks. This time, it’s easy to let him talk; Ed can tell Greed’s only trying to get a rise out of him because he knows that, in a fair fight, they’re at a stalemate. “That takes humility, kid. I admire that.”

As he speaks, he aims another punch that Ed easily deflects. “So, besides hot, what else was Russell like?” Greed continues, his gaze traveling over Ed in search of an opening. Ed doesn’t let his eyes leave Greed’s face, even as he realizes he can no longer hear Al, Scar, Mei, or Envy. Just as well, Ed thinks: he and Greed circle each other like wolves and could be the only two people in the world right now.

“Was he smart, funny, charming? You know, when I took his body, he kind of struck _me_ as pretty pathetic. Could barely put together a sentence, he was crying so hard, and forget about me understanding him. Totally hysterical. But I get the feeling he wasn’t like that most of the time, is that right?”

Ed’s grip on the sword handle is so tight his hands are starting to shake. “He wasn’t,” he says quietly.

“Yeah, I didn’t think so,” says Greed in a would-be innocent voice. “Cool and collected, then? Strong and silent type? That makes sense. You’re a feisty little thing, and opposites attract, I guess. I just wanted to know,” he explains, while Ed forces his breaths to stay slow and even, “since I’m in his body now. For a while, people are gonna see me and expect Russell, so I’ll want to do him justice, you know? I figure his boy-toy must be a decent source of information—nothing like a firsthand account, but since Russell Tringham’s _dead_ —”

That’s too much. With an angry yell, Ed lunges. He knows he’s made a mistake before the blade even comes close to Greed, but it’s too late to fix it—Greed swipes at the sword with his claws and Ed yanks the weapon, his lifeline, out of his reach at the cost of those talons tearing into his left shoulder. Ed screams again, this time in pain; Russell’s sword clatters to the ground, and Ed drops to one knee as he clutches his wound.

His lungs burning, his shoulder and knee hurting so badly he trembles all over, Ed shuts his eyes and waits for a deathblow. Only then does he remember that bearded bastard’s words, that he and Al have to stay alive for now. That shouldn’t stop Greed from knocking him out to stick him somewhere he won’t be a nuisance, but as Ed kneels on the ground, no strike of any kind comes. Gingerly, he recovers his sword, gets to his feet, and turns. Greed stands several paces back from where he knocked Ed over. The hand he holds to his temple is flesh again. For a moment, Ed stares in confusion. Then, he understands, and, despite his painful injuries, he grins.

“For someone who doesn’t lie, you’re sure talking out of your ass,” says Ed. “Hell, you’re giving Russell a run for his money. He’s fighting you right now, isn’t he?”

Greed snarls, reactivating his Ultimate Shield and curling his claws threateningly, but Ed doesn’t let up. “For as much as we fight, he doesn’t want you to rip me open. He’s pissed you did that, isn’t he? Tell him I said that’s sweet of him. Or, better yet,” says Ed loudly, even as he braces himself for another attack, “give Russell his body back and crawl back to whatever hellhole you came from!”

“Sorry, can’t _do_ that!” Greed shouts, and Ed dodges his fist by a hair. The blows come one after the other—but, unlike Ed, Greed doesn’t lose any power or accuracy in his anger; it takes all of Ed’s strength to block them one by one with Russell’s sword, especially given the state of his shoulder. After several moments of this, Ed’s back meets a slab of concrete and his heart stutters with panic. Greed, apparently seeing it on his face, smiles viciously.

“The body was a _gift_ , kid,” he says. “I don’t follow a lot of rules, but a big one of mine is ‘no take-backs’. Your _pathetic little boyfriend_ handed his body over on a silver platter. It’s _mine_ now. _Get over it!_ ”

Ed just barely manages to deflect another swing of Greed’s fist with the flat of his sword. His shoulder feels like it’s on fire.

“Give it up already,” Greed tells him. “You’re hurt. You’re exhausted. You can’t beat me.”

A defiant _yes, I can_ sits on Ed’s tongue, but pain and fatigue force him to be realistic—his shoulder screams with every twitch of his left arm, his right knee is buckling under his weight, and his lungs are so sore he tastes blood on his breath. Gripping Russell’s sword in his automail hand, Ed sighs.

“I probably can’t,” he relents. “But you know what, asshole? I bet Russell can. You can deny it all you want, but I know he’s fighting you right now. He’s gonna realize your dick father was wrong, and he’s gonna keep fighting you, and he’s gonna crush you like the fucking tick you are. ‘Cause, see, you’re _Greed_. You want everything you don’t have, and there’s a _lot_ you don’t have that Russell _does_.” Ed’s voice softens. “Sometimes he’s got his head so far up his own ass he doesn’t realize it, but he’s got people who love him to death. He’s got people who _need_ him.”

“Well, isn’t that cute,” says Greed, who looks like he’s eaten something bitter. When he smirks, he’s sure to show all of his teeth. “Put the sword down and I might let you come over here and give me a kiss if it’ll make you feel better.”

Ed’s anger flares up again. “I wasn’t talking about just _me_ ,” he says, his chest heaving. The sword shakes as his fingers tighten around the handle. “I was _talking_ about _Fletcher!_ ”

The one-handed thrust should be easy to block, but the blade pierces Greed’s shoulder and he falls back with a yell. Ed follows suit to pin him down, knees at his chest, and grips the sword handle in his metal hand. He knows he’s not imagining that pinched, pained expression, and for a split second, Ed swears he can see a flicker of dark blue in those bright purple eyes.

“You _are_ in there, aren’t you?” he whispers. “Russell?”

The second passes, and Greed’s face turns to stone. He unseats Ed with a swat of one hand, grasps the sword sticking out of his shoulder with the other, and deftly breaks the handle off. Rising on his knees, Greed seizes Ed’s injured arm, ignoring Ed’s howl of pain, and traps it between his thighs. One hand closes around his elbow, the other around his wrist. Before Ed can do more than writhe, Greed _twists_ , and the bone breaks for the second time in mere hours. Ed’s scream reverberates through the cavern.

“Hey, pops!” Greed calls, while Ed curls in on himself on the stone floor. Tears finally leak from his stubborn eyes and spill over his cheeks. “I caught him for you!”

Through the stinging, Ed sees Greed’s father emerge from apparently nowhere, his hair still neat and his robe still spotless. Hate pounds in Ed’s blood: he wants to lunge at the bastard and throttle him, but it hurts too much to move.

“Excellent job, my son,” he says. “Though you should have been more careful with him.”

“Blame _him_ ,” Greed answers, pinching the blade in his shoulder between two fingers and sliding it out like a splinter.

Every inch of him protests, but when his father’s doppelganger starts for him, Ed staggers to his feet and tries to make a run for it. He’s not quick enough. The bearded man clutches Ed’s injured arm; in a flash of red light, the gashes close, the bone mends, and the cut on his knee heals. Ed yanks his arm free the moment he’s able to and backs up until he collides with another hunk of rock on the floor, breathing hard and fast.

“If we’re _done_ here, then,” says Hohenheim’s double, sounding mildly exasperated, “I want the Elric brothers taken to Wrath as soon as possible. Greed—no, Envy will escort them. Where—?”

As if on cue, Envy appears in the doorway again, still in their monstrous “true” form with the heads and torsos of screaming souls attached to their face and neck. Trapped in their arms, hands pinned behind his back, is Al. Scar and Mei appear to have vanished. Ed, seeing Gluttony panting near Envy’s feet, has a vision of what might have happened to them and feels his stomach turn.

Envy takes in the resigned Ed, the disheveled but triumphant Greed, and laughs aloud. “You two really made a mess of things!” they say. “For _fuck’s sake_ , if you’d just _behaved_ yourselves, we would have let you go a _lot_ sooner.” In that horrible mouth of theirs, the sound is off, but Ed thinks they’re clicking their tongue.

“I guess it runs in the family,” Greed quips as he sets his clothes to rights as best he can. Tears still burning his eyes, Ed gives Greed his fiercest glower, but the bastard just turns and walks toward his creator with his hands in his pockets.

“Brother!” Al yells. Ed’s wounds may be healed, but his clothes remain torn and bloodied; the sight makes Al struggle against Envy’s iron grip. Ed quickly dries his face as he picks his way through the debris over to his younger brother.

“I’m fine, Al,” he assures him. “You were right. We should probably get out of here. Are _you_ okay? What happened?”

Before Alphonse can answer, Hohenheim’s doppelganger raises his voice and addresses Envy. “Bring them to Wrath, my child. He’ll need to speak with them.”

“Of course,” says Envy. Al glances from them to their father and back again, clearly apprehensive, but Ed can’t muster any more energy to fret about it. Instead, he stares at Greed’s back as he lingers near his creator. The set of his shoulders, the way he quietly fixes his cuffs and collar. From this distance, he could be Russell.

“Brother?” Al says again. This time, it’s spoken in soft concern. “Is Russell…?”

Ed allows himself another few seconds to look, and then he hardens his heart and turns away.

“That’s not Russell,” he tells Al. He tightens his hands into fists. “But Russell’s still in there, somewhere. He lied, Al. Greed lied. I know he did.”

Spoken aloud, the words sound stupid and desperate to Ed and probably seem doubly so to Al, but in his heart, Ed knows they’re true. He doesn’t look back again; he knows better. Still, he pauses before he follows Envy and Al out the door. He shuts his eyes and, silently, mutters not a prayer, but a promise—one repeated so many times now it sounds like an old drinking song. Countless times he’s failed to deliver on it, but Ed refuses to let it lose its weight.

Then, because Ed is a scientist, and science dictates that repeating the same thing will produce the same results, he adds something else to this unspoken promise he makes. The first half is for his boyfriend: _I’m going to fix this._

The second half is for himself. _They can’t have you, too._

**Author's Note:**

> Talk to me on [tumblr](http://bpdal.tumblr.com/)!


End file.
